The Way Back
by I am hurricane
Summary: Stiles watches as her head tilts slightly, and then something shifts in the set of her shoulders. She turns her head, and her lips twitch upward as her eyes lock with his across the parking lot. A rush of nervous-excitement goes through him, when her eyes land on him. And all he can think about is the way she kissed him last night.
1. The Girl in the Window

**Author's Note: No copyright infringement intended. This story is a prequel to Nine Simple Rules. It takes place in the time between the end of season S3P2 and the beginning of season 4. It explores how the pack pieces itself together in the wake of season 3 and it focuses on the growing feelings between Stiles and Malia. Nine Simple Rules is still active and I'm writing it...i'm just trying my hand at multitasking.**

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A knot of tricolored yarn dangles from a thumbtack on the wall. Stiles shifts around in front of his bulletin board, crumpling papers and tossing them blindly at his overflowing wastebasket. A few papers flutter from his grasp as he yanks out another tack. They fall around him and crinkle beneath his feet as he shifts onto his toes and plucks free another strand of yarn.

With every thumbtack he pulls free he feels a little lighter. But he knows the feeling won't last. Deep down he knows what he's doing, compulsive cleaning is textbook for a reason. Because for a few minutes, you get to be in control of your own space. And for a few minutes you forget about everything else.

Like how Allison is dead and his best friend is heartbroken, or about how the light has gone out of Lydia's eyes. His throat clenches, as guilt rolls through him. He pushes it down. And he decides that he'll upturn his desk drawers next and drag this out for as long as he can.

"Hey," his dad's voice echoes from the doorway. "Whatcha doing?" Stiles shuffles the papers in his hands and glances toward him.

"Uh…" Stiles clears his throat. His eyes shooting between his dad and the wall. "Just-uh clearing my head."

His dad gives him a nod and a small rueful smile before he shifts off the door-frame and leaves him to his work. Stiles turns back to his wall and sighs as he reaches up to pull down another stack of papers.

An hour later his bulletin board is bare and his drawers are cleared out. His floor is littered with discarded photographs, maps, schematics, papers and tangled webs of yarn. Stiles is grabbing handfuls of it and stuffing it in a garbage bag, when there is a knock at his window. He jolts, his feet skidding on the papers beneath his feet as he spins toward the window. Its dark out and his blinds are drawn. Fear coils in his stomach. His hand shoots out and grabs his bat from beneath his bed.

Stiles creeps over to the window and pries open two of the slats with his fingers. His bat clatters to the floor. Malia is sitting perched just outside his window. Stiles yanks the lift cord and pushes open the window. His hands shoot out to anchor Malia. She grabs onto his shoulders and Stiles pulls her through his window.

As he set her on her feet her hands quickly slide off his shoulders. But he's so stunned to have her in his room for the first time that his hands stay curled around her biceps for a few seconds. Then Stiles realizes that she's shivering. He slides his hands down her arms, she's cold as ice.

He leaves her for a moment and goes to tug open his closet door, and he reaches inside to snag a sweater. As Stiles moves back toward her he notices that she has her arms wrapped tightly around herself. He holds the sweater out to her. But when she looks at it but doesn't move to take it, Stiles makes an impatient noise. He draws the sweater over her head and tugs it down to cover her.

Stiles huffs through his nose and smirks at the sight of her. Her hair is in her face, and her arms are obviously still tucked around herself beneath the sweater, so the sleeves hang limply at her sides. Unsure what possesses him to do it, Stiles reaches out and brushes her hair out of her eyes.

Her tousled hair is silky soft beneath his fingers, just like he remembered it. Malia is tucked up to her nose in the collar of his sweater. As he pushed the hair out of her eyes she blinks up at him, her head tilted in curiosity. His throat goes dry. It's the same look she had given him in Eichen House, right after he'd gathered her hands in his and tried to warm them.

Stiles drops his hands and takes a step back from her. They had never talked about it. They had seen each other about a handful of times since it had happened. But they had never been alone together. Scott, Lydia or Kira had always been there with them, and somehow that had helped him keep his wandering mind in check. But this time he's alone with her...in his bedroom. Flashes of a green couch and her bare skin, race through his head.

Stiles clears his throat and rubs at the back of his neck. "Uh…Malia?" his voice cracks. "Wha-what're you doing here?"

Her reply is muffled by the collar of his sweater. The corner of his lip twitches and he bites the inside of his cheek as he reaches out and gently tugs the sweater off her nose. Malia wiggles her nose. And Stiles can't help finding it adorable.

"Sorry," He smirks. "I didn't catch that."

Malia shrugs. "I just needed to get out of my house." Stiles jerks his head in a nod.

"You, still avoiding you're dad?" he asks gently.

Malia shakes her head. "No more than usual. The school assigned me this tutor. He was over at the house and he was just so..." she struggled for words, her face flushed with anger. "I-I kept breaking pencils—I had to get out of there before I lost it."

Stiles gives her a sympathetic look. He notices that she still has her arms tucked under his sweater. And it gives him an idea. He crosses his room and disappears back into his closet. He reaches his arm around the top shelf questing for something. "What'd he do to set you off?" Stiles asks over his shoulder as he seizes a set of mitts. They are thick rag wool finger-less gloves with convertible mitten tops.

Malia's mouth twists in disgust. "He kept touching me." Stiles tenses, as he feels a sudden twinge of anger. The thought of some guy hassling her twists uncomfortably in his gut. "I tried to ignore it…but I just ended up breaking pencils so I wouldn't break his hand. I had to get out of there."

His jaw twitches and he keeps his head down as he moves back to her side, as he struggles to keep his face impassive.

Stiles shakes his head. "What a creep." he says a little to vehemently, his anger bleeding into his voice. Malia arches an eyebrow at him. And Stiles swallows down the lump in his throat. "I mean he was supposed to be helping you. Not making you feel like that. You should have broken his hand." he grumbles.

Malia flashes a dangerous smile. "If he tries it again, I will."

Stiles doesn't like the idea of anyone hassling one of his friends, but this is more complicated than that. He still doesn't know her very well but in Eichen House, before anything had happened on that couch she had listened to him and promised not to judge him. And for someone who spends a great deal of his time judging himself, that had really meant something to him. And it makes him feel protective of her now.

He remembers the gloves in his hands and reaches out to gently tug on the right sleeve of the sweater. Malia looks down at his hand on her sleeve and quirks an eyebrow. Stiles holds open a wool finger-less glove for her.

"Here, put these on." He instructs. Malia shifts her arms beneath the sweater and slips them into the sleeves. Stiles gently catches her wrist and slips the glove onto her hand. Malia flexes her fingers in it and sighs contentedly. Stiles smirks and slips the other mitt on her. He bends his head over her hand as he buttons down the mitten top. When he looks up he finds Malia watching him with that same warm curious expression. He flushes and drops her hand.

"Better?" he asks.

Malia smirks at him. "Much."

"Good — that's good." He says awkwardly as he rubs at the back of his neck. Malia's eyes scan over his room. Stiles shifts uncomfortably on his feet, his room is a disaster. His desk drawers are upturned and his carpet is littered with papers, and there is a knotted web of tricolored yarn strew across his bed. Malia crosses over and sits on the edge of his bed and he sort of chokes on air. Malia gives him an odd look as he coughs and clears his throat. She picks up a tangle of yarn and shrugs her shoulders.

"What is all this?" she asks.

"I was ah…cleaning." he says gesturing toward the garbage bag.

Malia raises an eyebrow at him. "Maybe I was in the woods for too long but I remember cleaning used to make things look better," she grins at him teasingly as she flicks the yarn back onto his bed. "Not worse."

Stiles blinks at her, his head tilting in amusement. Beautiful. And a smartass. He decides. Yeah that definitely wasn't going to help him keep his thoughts PG. That and the fact she was sitting on his bed looking deplorably good in his raglan sweater.


	2. Being Human

"You think this is a mess…" he says with a shrug. "You should have seen this place an hour ago."

Malia smirks and raises a doubtful eyebrow at him. Stiles chuckles and drops to a knee, grabbing a fistful of newspaper clippings he starts stuffing them into the abandoned garbage bag. He looks up and finds her eyes studying his room with interest, as her fingers toy with a loose thread on her mitt. He catches himself staring again and drops his eyes. After a moment he notices her rise off his bed and move past him. He keeps his hands busy but lets his eyes follow her.

Malia wanders curiously around his room, her arms still tucked tightly around her middle. She glides past his tidy desk and empty bulletin board. She quirks her eyebrow down at his lacrosse stick and gym bag, that lay in a heap on the floor, before stepping around them.

When she pauses in front of his telescope, Stiles gives up all pretense of cleaning as he watches her duck down and peek through the eyepiece. She squints and lifts her head to peer through the window, before she bends down and glances through the eyepiece again, her lip quirking upward.

That crooked smile of hers was fast becoming one of his favorite things. She lifts her head and Stiles loudly crumples up another mass of papers and shoves them in the garbage bag. Malia continues to roam around. She stops by the skateboard propped against his wall. She reaches out and tentatively flicks a wheel causing it to rattle and spin. A moment later she moves on to his bookshelf. She skims her mitt along the spines of the weathered novels that line the shelves. The books are mostly science-fiction and mystery novels. But a few of the larger books in his collection, which he's added over the last few years are about; mythology, conspiracy theories and criminal science.

Interspersed throughout the shelves were a few trinkets, action figures and framed photographs. One of the pictures, is of a younger Stiles with his parents. In it his dad has his arm around him and his mom is kissing his cheek. They all look so happy and at ease. It was taken only a few months before his mom got sick. And it was probably his last good memory of her. Propped against the frame was his dad's crumpled old badge that he had flattened back out. After he had rescued his dad and Melissa from the nemeton, his dad had given it to him telling him that he'd be a hell of a cop one day.

Further down the shelf was a picture of Scott and Stiles, and next to it was the lacrosse ball from their championship game. Coach had thrown it at him when he'd come into school the next day, grumbling something about how he didn't know Stiles had it in him. Which for Coach was about as warm and fuzzy as it got.

Malia smirks and picks up one of his action figures. Stiles cringes as she turns it over in her hands. There was something demeaning about the girl you lost your virginity to seeing you're action figure collection. Stiles clears his throat and walks over to her.

"So…uh…what's with the school tutor?" he asks offhandedly. "I didn't think you were planning to stick around."

"I'm not." Malia says as she resets the action figure on his shelf. "As soon as I learn to control the shift, I'm gone. But until then my dad's making me go to school." Her shoulders bunch up as she crosses her arms and moves away from him toward the window.

Stiles licks his lips. "I could…um help you with school. If you want." he offers as he comes up behind her. Malia turns back toward him and bites her lip as she quietly assesses him. Stiles flashes her a small grin and puts his hands on his hips. "I've never been a tutor before." he admits. "But at least-uh I know how to keep my hands to myself."

Malia raises a skeptical eyebrow at him and gives him a slow smile. Stiles sees a flash of her and that green couch again, and he flushes when he realizes their both thinking about the same thing. He smiles shyly and drops his eyes.

Malia brushes a lock of hair behind her ear. "I could use the help." she admits, "I'm only supposed to be taking a few classes at first. Just English and History…I think."

Stiles nods and rubs his hands together. "Alright, so that's where we'll start."

Her shoulders relax slightly and she shoots him a small thankful smile. It stirs something up inside him that he hasn't felt since the Nogitsune took him. Pride at being able to do something right…something good.

"I should probably go." She says nudging her head toward the window. "My dad will be home soon."

"O.K." he mumbles. He really doesn't want her to go yet. He's not sure what it is he feels when she's around him, but whatever it is, he likes it. Malia hesitates for a second then pulls off the mitts he'd lent her, and holds them out to him.

Stiles doesn't move to take them, instead he shakes his head and offers, "How about I give you a ride home?"

Malia shrugs. "It's O.K. I like to walk."

Stiles smirks and reaches into his pocket for his keys. "Yeah, but your cold. And the Jeep has a heater." he says dangling the keys persuasively.

Malia grins and slips back on the mitts. "Well, when you put it like that..." Stiles moves around her to shut the window and then leads her down the stairs.

As they move past the kitchen his dad lifts his head from the paperwork he has sprawled across the table. The Sheriff's brow furrows in confusion when Stiles and a girl that he hadn't know was in the house pass by him. Before he can even form a coherent question they're already out the front door. So he just shakes his head and goes back to his paperwork, but he can't help the smile that pulls at his mouth.

The heater is on full blast as they drive. Malia sits with her foot on the seat and her knee pressed against the passenger side door. Stiles smirks to himself as she toys with the radio dial unable to settle on a station. They were almost at the turn off for her place when he sees a light up ahead and gets an idea. Stiles flicks his indicator and moves into the opposite lane.

Malia looks up from tuning the radio. "Stiles, you're going the wrong way."

"I'm just taking a little detour, it'll only be five minutes." he assures. Stiles pulls the Jeep into a brightly lit parking lot with lots of cars and a small checkered red and white building. A big sign with blazing letters spells out The Hills Drive-In.

"What are we doing here?" she asks confused.

"I just want you to have a little bit of fun as a human, before you go running off to the woods again." he says with a shrug of his shoulders.

Malia stares at drive-in and the crowd of people gathered around it with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation. Before long her curiosity wins out and she gives him a tentative nod. Stiles grins and hops out of the Jeep. Coming around to the passenger side door he tugs it open for her and holds out his hand.

Malia takes his hand and climbs down. "First lesson." Stiles crows. "Is curly fries and ice cream." He guides her toward the lineup at the front window. Malia looks a bit wary and uncomfortable with so many people around her so she steps further into Stiles' space. He squeezes her hand through her mitt. He distracts her by pointing out all the different ice cream flavors. The line moves fast and before she can decide which flavor to try a grandfatherly old man is asking her for her order. Malia looks to Stiles and points out to him what she wants from the list.

Stiles smirks at Malia before asking the old man. "Can I get a swirl cone for the young lady in the mitts?"

About an hour later, Stiles pulls the Jeep into Malia's driveway. They had both been laughing and as he puts the Jeep in park he takes a moment to enjoy her bright eyes and flushed cheeks.

"See." he teases. "Being human isn't so bad."

Malia rolls her eyes at him. "So I like curly fries and ice cream. It doesn't prove anything."

Stiles tilts his head at her. "But you admit being human isn't terrible all the time?" he wheedles.

Malia pulls off the mitts he lent her and smacks him with them. "Stop—asking—me—that!" she insists even as she laughs.

"Hey! Hey!" Stiles snickers as he catches her wrists. She could easily break free of his hold but for whatever reason, she doesn't. After a few seconds he realizes that they've both stopped laughing and that they're sitting almost pressed up against each other. A few scant inches and he would be kissing her.

Stiles takes a breath and let's go of her, and subtly eases himself back in his seat. Malia leans back against the door and runs a hand through her hair.

"So," she begins her voice still a little breathless. "Does this mean that every time we study, I get more human lessons?"

Stiles grins. "Maybe." She smiles at him and he can't help staring at her mouth.

The porch light turns on and it glares against the windshield. Malia turns her head toward the house.

"My dad must be home." she muses. "I'd better go." Stiles nods expecting her to hop out and sprint off toward the house. Instead she grabs the hem of the sweater and tugs it over her head. Beneath the sweater her t-shirt rucks up and his mouth goes dry as he sees a flash of her tan bare skin. Malia pushes her hair out of her face and offers the sweater back to him. "Thanks for this...and for letting me climb through you're window." she says softly. He's stunned for a second and all he can think is _she's so damn beautiful._

Stiles swallows the lump in his throat and takes the sweater from her. "Anytime." he says in a voice that he hopes sounds smoother than it feels.

Malia gives him a smile and eases out the passenger side door.

Stiles clears his throat and turns the key, and the Jeep's engine rattles to life. He looks up and realizes that Malia hasn't shut the passenger side door. She looks toward her house then glances back at him. He cocks his head to the side. He's about to ask her what's wrong when she climbs back onto the step-rail leans over the seat and kisses him. His hands tighten on the wheel as she kisses him. Stiles leans into her, tilting his head as he kisses her back. He had promised to keep his hands to himself, but he never said anything about kissing her. Malia smiles against his mouth and gently tugs at his bottom lip with her teeth. His hands flex on the steering wheel, and he hums in the back of his throat. She pulls back and softly bumps her nose against his. His breathing is still ragged when she admits against his lips.

"Maybe being human isn't so bad."

His eyes fly open. "I guess I'll see you at school." Malia says as she eases back from him with a smirk. Stiles doesn't trust his voice yet so he just nods. She slides out of the Jeep and shuts the passenger side door. He smirks and brushes his hand over his mouth.

"And Stiles?" he looks up to find her leaning in through the open passenger window. "I never said you had to keep your hands to yourself."

Stiles grins at her and watches as she walk off toward her house. A big Rottweiler comes around the side of the house and barks boisterously as it circles her happily. Malia ruffles the big dog's neck. Noticing the Jeep the Rottweiler lets out a fierce booming bark. But Malia claps her hands and the big Rottweiler lopes over to her like a docile puppy. She opens the screen door and lets the dog in. She looks back and gives Stiles a small wave before she disappears inside.

Stiles laughs and runs a hand over his face. He throws the Jeep in reverse and turns back out onto the highway. On the way home he rolls his windows down and turns the radio up. He drums his hand against the wheel as the music blares. When he pulls into his drive way and hops out of his Jeep, he reaches back to grab the sweater and bring it inside. Then he pauses. He shakes out the sweater, folds it, and tucks it under the passenger seat. _She's always cold. But maybe that's one thing I can fix._


	3. For Allison

Stiles jolts awake with a shout on his lips, his heart beating wildly, blood rushing in his ears. He slumps back against the foot of his bed and tries to catch his breath. He must have drifted off while he was working. He rubs his sweaty palms on the knees of his jeans and tries to will the violent onslaught of images to stop. _Twisting the sword into Scott...the deputy bleeding out on the floor...the frantic rush of people in the hospital...Allison fading in Scott's arms._

Stiles hangs his head and covers his face with his hands. Bile rises up the back of his throat as he remembers the twisted rush of power...the sick thrill of chaos. He wipes the back of his hand over his mouth and climbs to his feet. With shaky hands he flicks on his bedroom light and stumbles over to the bathroom sink. He spins the tap and scoops up handfuls of cold water and slashes it over his face and the back of his neck. Water runs down his face and soaks through the front of his shirt. He grips the sides of the sink as another wave of nausea rolls through him. He spits the sharp taste from his mouth into the sink.

Stiles tears off his t-shirt and mops his face with it before bunching it up and tossing it in the corner. He brushes his teeth three times to rinse the foul taste from his mouth, but even afterwards it lingers in the back of his throat. He avoids his own eyes in the mirror. Stiles moves back into his room and grabs the plaid shirt that hangs off the back of his door handle. He shrugs it on, its a thin and well-worn brushed cotton shirt, and its soft comforting weight feels good against his agitated skin.

Stiles fumbles slightly with the buttons as his eyes take in the room. It's immaculate. He must have finished cleaning before he dozed off. He retrieves his phone from the floor where he had fallen asleep. Tapping his phone he checks the time... _5:38 am._ He pockets the phone and pinches the bridge of his nose. His eyes are still bleary. He couldn't of had more than three hours of sleep. He has a few hours before he needs to be up for school but he doesn't want to chance falling asleep again.

His eyes drift around the room for a moment before landing on his lacrosse stick. He reaches out and inspects the mesh for frays. The strings are worn but not frayed but he decides to restring it anyway, just to keep his hands busy. He sits on the corner of his bed and starts working the knots and loops free.

By the time he walks into school that morning, he had restrung both of his lacrosse sticks, rewrote his English paper, taken a lot of Adderall and washed it down with two pots of coffee. He walks with his head down, and his backpack slung over one shoulder. He can feel eyes on him but he doesn't lift his head. All throughout school he's been somewhat of a spectacle. He's always riled up teachers, with his inability to keep still and his smart mouth. And that has always given people enough reason to talk. But this is different. He can hear snippets of their conversations; _'...sheriff's son...' '...mental hospital...' '...what a freak...' '...that girl that died...'_

He grits his teeth, as anger courses hotly through him. He feels this overwhelming urge, to strike out. He wants to break things — preferably his hand on one of their smug faces — he wants to kick them when their down. A dark sinister voice claws its way out of his memories; _That's right...twist the knife, Stiles._ He shudders and moves away from them quickly...before he hurts someone. He ducks down a quiet corridor and unfurls his fingers. His hands are shaking. There's a sinking feeling in his chest. _Shame._ He's afraid of his own hands. Of what they might do.

The second bell rings but he stays still. He doesn't leave the wall until his hands stop shaking. Then he starts down the corridor, passing by the computer lab and a few quiet classrooms. Until he sees a flash of someone out of the corner or his eye. He stops and backs up a few steps and peeks through the open classroom door. There on the empty classroom floor, Scott is sitting with his knees drawn up, his eyes staring out the window.

Stiles hesitates for a moment at the door. When you have a best friend—that person you never get sick of being around. And their hurting because of something you've done, it's hard to know what to do with yourself. Scott has never blamed him for anything that happen while he was under the nogitsune's control. But he doesn't have to. Stiles already knows it's his fault. So this is what he does now, he hesitates. He hesitates before he texts him, he hesitates before he talks to him. Things that had always been a second nature for him, now make him feel so uncertain. Stiles shakes his head and moves into the room. No matter how responsible he feels, he won't let Scott go through this alone.

"Scott," he says softly. "Whatcha doing?"

Scott turns his head from the window, his eyes unfocused as he shrugs, "I don't know...I just-uh wanted to sit here for a while." he tells him in a flat toneless voice.

Stiles shifts closer, "O.K." he says as he slips his bag off his shoulder and moves to slide down the wall beside him. Stiles draws up his knees and stares at his hands as they quietly sit shoulder to shoulder. It's a long time before anyone says anything. Stiles struggles to quiet his busy thoughts and to keep from fidgeting too much. He counts the ceiling tiles until Scott's shaky voice breaks the silence.

"I...the first time I saw her...was through that window." he whispers, running a hand through his hair.

"I'd never seen anything so perfect." Scott whispers reverently. His mouth is turned down, the corner of his lip quivering. "I..." he sucks in a shuddering breath. "I-lent-her-my-pen-" he chokes. Stiles grips Scott's shoulder hard in support. Scott painfully muffles a sob. It the kind of low pitiful sound we make as children, the kind that starts in your stomach and shakes all the way through you. Tears spring to Stiles' eyes, at the sound of it coming from his best friend. He braces Scott's shoulder and sits helplessly beside him, unsure of what more to do.

Stiles thinks of Allison. He had thought she was perfect when he first saw her too. I mean who wouldn't? But then he got to know her. And she wasn't perfect. She was stubborn and a bit of a risk-taker. She bit her nails and she snorted when she laughed. It was impossible to sit through a movie with her because she always asked too many questions. And sometimes when she went into 'hunter mode' she was a little scary and intense.

But Stiles missed her. He missed her clever smiles. And the way she would shove him playfully when he would get too anxious or worked up about something. She was fun to tease and to bicker with. She could be funny, bull-headed, fearless and sweet. And no matter what was going on with her and Scott she was always good to him. Allison wasn't perfect...she was real...she was complicated...and flawed...and vibrant. She was his _friend._ And she had died that night trying to save _him_.

Scott has gone quiet beside him, his face in his hands. Stiles felt the words rising up his throat before he could stop them. _Allison would want him to know._

"She loved you." Stiles whispers.

He's not sure that Scott heard him until a few minutes later when he lifts his head. "She picked, Issac." he corrects.

"She cared about Issac. She _loved_ you." Stiles insists.

Scott shrugs, "Maybe..." he says as he brushes the back of his sleeve across his eyes.

"Did she ever tell you about the hunter's code?" Stiles asks.

Scott grimaces. "Yeah, after her mom died she told me about it. ' _We hunt those that hunt us'"_

Stiles nods. "When she convinced her dad to start hunting again...she made a new code."

Scott turns his head toward him. "What was it?"

"' _We protect those who cannot protect themselves'_ " Stiles recites thoughtfully. Scott drops his head and smiles sadly. Stiles squeezes his friend's shoulder. "She got that from you, Scott." he insists. "She believed in you. And she stood by you. She loved you, Scott."

Scott drops his head and nods, barely holding back tears, his shoulders shaking. Stiles wraps his arm around him and braces him through it.

"I tried s—so hard t—to give her space." Scott chokes out, in a strangled voice. "I l—loved her s—so m—much." he whispers brokenly. "A—and now I—I d—don't know wh—what I'm supposed to do."

Stiles isn't sure what their supposed to do either. How do they piece themselves back together after something like this? How do you go on after your heart's been torn out? After you've lost who you thought you were? After you've buried your friends? He doesn't have any answers for him, so he just sits with him. His arm tight around him, so that he knows he's not alone...that he won't let go.

They sit there on the cold classroom floor for a long time. Then something stirs in Stiles' chest. "We keep going...we keep trying." Stiles says with conviction. "We protect those who can't protect themselves. For her...and for everyone we c-couldn't save."

Scott lifts his head and stares at him and something sacred passes between the two friends. A solemn promise. _For Allison._

* * *

 **Author's Note: Allison Argent was such a solid character. She was brave, heroic, funny, strong and flawed. She was a great multidimensional character. I just wanted to say goodbye to her properly and I think the pack needed to.**


	4. The Art of Getting By

The rest of the morning passes by in a blur for Stiles. Keeping his focus in class is a struggle on a good day. And today is most definitely not a good day. It's hard to keep his overactive mind in check when he's running on three hours of sleep. And fragmented memories keep scattering his thoughts. After a while he gives up trying.

He gives a smart ass reply when he's called on in History. And he falls asleep halfway through biology class. Lydia jabs him in the ribs to wake him up. He flails, half falling out of his desk in his rush to stand. Lydia gives him a small amused smile. Stiles rubs a hand over his face, grabs his binder and shoulders his bag. Yawning, he follows her out of the classroom. They meet Scott for lunch at their favorite table in the quad.

They're all quieter than usual. And there table is mostly empty now. Allison is gone. Aiden is gone. Ethan and Isaac have skipped town. Kira is sitting with them. She's trying to make conversation with Lydia who's only replying halfheartedly. Stiles picks at his food with disinterest. He looks across the table at Scott. He's quiet, but he looks more like himself than he has since the funeral. It's a relief to see him looking better. And it stirs up something hopeful in him.

Feeling impulsive, Stiles swipes an Oreo from Scott's tray. Scott's head whips up. Stiles smirks and pops the Oreo it in his mouth, daring Scott to do something about it. Scott raises an eyebrow at him and reaches for his straw. He tears off an edge then blows the wrapper off the straw and into Stiles' face. Stiles guffaws brushing his hand over his face and flicks a few peas at his friend.

Scott shakes his head at him throws a fry his way. Stiles dodges in his seat and whips his bottle cap at him. Scott tosses his empty milk box. The boys are laughing and things are escalating. The girls protest loudly as half-eaten granola bars, empty soda cans and chip bags start flying. Ketchup lands on Lydia's favorite jacket and she growls shoving her tray across the table. Lydia grabs Kira's cupcake and shoves it in Stiles' face.

Stiles gets frosting up his nose and Scott laughs so hard he literally falls under the table. Stiles swipes Lydia's napkin and tries to wipe the frosting off his face but only succeeds in smearing it around. Lydia flicks her hair and grins smugly at Stiles. Kira peeks under the table and laughs at the sight of Scott still doubled-over. Scott eventually pulls himself back up to his seat, but he can't look at Stiles with a straight face. Stiles can't seem to catch his breath and his stomach is starting to hurt. He looks around the table his shoulders still shaking with laughter. If only for a few minutes everyone seems lighter. And it helps. Stiles sucks in a much needed breath and watches his friends who are still snickering at him.

 _Things can't always be bad._

 _Somehow they're going to be O.K._

* * *

Stiles has to change his shirt after lunch. So he bounds over to his Jeep, and finds a spare plaid shirt that he had flung in the backseat a few days ago. It's a bit wrinkled but it will half to do. He strips off his soiled t-shirt and shrugs on the long-sleeve plaid shirt. He was standing in the open driver's side door working the buttons on his shirt, when he hears the distinctive purr of an old V8 engine behind him. His eyes dart up to his side-mirror, and his hands freeze as he sees a flash of someone familiar. He spins around and watches as Malia climbs out of a shiny old black Pontiac.

And Stiles forgets to breathe. Her hair is in a messy braid that's swept over one shoulder, and she's wearing a light pink knit sweater and ripped blue jeans. _She kissed him last night._ And he has no idea how he's supposed to process that. It wasn't even their first kiss...they still hadn't even talked about how far things went at Eichen House. For the first time in a long time, Stiles Stilinski was wholly and completely out of his depth, and it had nothing to do with the supernatural. It was a strange new feeling-and he likes it.

Malia slams the car door and slings her backpack over one shoulder. She casts a wary glance toward the school. And Stiles finds himself moving toward her as he hastily buttons his shirt.

Mr. Tate rolls down his window and pokes his head out to say something to her. Stiles doesn't catch what he says but he watches Malia grimace and shake her head in response.

Stiles watches as her head tilts slightly, and then something shifts in the set of her shoulders. She turns her head, and her lips twitch upward as her eyes lock with his across the parking lot. A rush of nervous-excitement goes through him, when her eyes land on him. And all he can think about is the way she kissed him last night.

He's only been kissed like four or five times in his life. Heather had kissed him because she'd known him for forever and thought he was 'safe.' Caitlin had kissed him because she was drunk and on the rebound. Lydia had him kissed once. And it should have been the highlight of his year…except she had been pretty adamant that it was a onetime medical emergency kiss. And he'd been kissed twice by Malia. Well, technically more than twice…because that first kiss had led to one hell of a second kiss and things had escalated fast from there. But Malia was the only girl that he'd kissed more than once. She was also the only girl that he was sure had kissed him just because she wanted to.

Malia grins warmly at him as he crosses the parking lot and comes to stand beside her.

She shifts away from the door of the Pontiac, and adjusts her backpack on her shoulder.

"Hey," she says, softly with a tilt of her head. Something about the way she's looking at him, makes his throat go dry.

Stiles ducks his head, and clears his throat, "Uh…hi," he says, a little gruffly, when his eyes flit back to hers.

Malia bites at the corner of her lip, amused. And that has Stiles so distracted by her lips, that he barely notices her dad climbing out of old Pontiac and butting between them.

Mr. Tate jabs his finger toward the CJ-5. "That you're Jeep?" he accuses.

Stiles blinks, surprised. His eyes dart toward his parking space. "Err…yeah."

"That wouldn't happen to be the same Jeep that dropped my daughter off past curfew last night, would it?"

Stiles licks his lips. "I, uh, I didn't know, Malia, had a curfew."

"She doesn't." Malia cut in, glaring daggers at her dad.

"She does now." Mr. Tate, corrects. "Now, that she's skipping out on tutoring."

"Uh, actually," Stiles interjects, as he slips his hands into his pockets, and shrugs his shoulders. "I'm gonna be helping, Malia, out with school, from now on."

"You?" Mr. Tate scoffs.

Stiles looks to Malia for her approval, and his resolve strengthens when he sees the relief in her eyes. He nods to her dad.

"Yeah, Me. I promised her that I would help. And that's exactly what I'm gonna do."

"No, offense, kid," he says, eyeing him up and down dismissively. "But I don't think you're the kind of help she needs."

Stiles' eyes flash with defiance, but he bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from saying something to Malia's dad that he might regret later.

TO BE CONTINUED...


End file.
